


What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger

by WakeupSoon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angry Sex, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:13:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WakeupSoon/pseuds/WakeupSoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is tired of Grantaire's drinking, but his attempt to stop him goes awry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orangegee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangegee/gifts).



> A friend of mine wanted drunken e/R sex, and it took me way too long to deliver. This is by far the most intense thing I've ever written. Hopefully its at least close to what she wanted.

He wasn’t sure how this had happened, how they’d gone from the meeting, to drinking, to.. this. Really, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to work it out either, or if he was just happy to let this run its course.

The meeting had gone as they normally did, Enjolras standing tall and dominating the attention of all in assembly by doing no more than being his usual self. Marius had skipped in at some point to declare his love for a girl whose name he didn’t even know, and seeing this irk the commanding chief, Grantaire had happily joined in on the distraction that had soon taken over the entire group. He hadn’t been able to help staring Enjolras down as the centre of attention shifted, no matter the disdain he saw in the younger man’s face. Disdain was easier to deal with. It helped Grantaire to quell the fire of desire burning inside him. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. Of course, the chief had soon taken back his audience, and with a passion that hadn’t quite been there before.

Grantaire dealt with this by drinking. 

He wasn’t sure when the meeting had finished, but the next time Grantaire truly focused on the room around him, he was the only one left save for Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac. 

Courfeyrac was walking past and out a second later, something on his tongue about a girl with legs to the heavens, and a face to match. Grantaire might not have heard that entirely correctly.. although he could definitely hear the two who were left discussing him in the corner. Combeferre it seemed was reluctant to leave him unattended. Grantaire assumed this meant he would getting dragged home by the guide. 

No one was expecting Enjolras to volunteer for the position. 

Combeferre left soon after, taking everything they had been working with that evening with him. The flag, the maps, the pamphlets they were still producing, leaving Enjolras almost empty handed. 

There was terse silence in the air as the man’s footsteps echoed further into the distance, which Grantaire chose to bring to an end by dropping his head heavily onto the table before him. He wasn’t even that drunk, not compared to states he’d been in at these very meetings before, but now he kind of wished he was. It would make whatever lecture was inevitably heading his way from Enjolras much easier to take. 

The clang of glass hitting wood close to his ear brought him out of this reverie. He rose his head to stare at the man before him who had placed a full bottle of brandy before him, raising an eyebrow. 

“For me, Apollo? You didn’t have to!” 

Enjolras himself didn’t speak. He sat on the chair on the other side of the small table, producing two glasses from who-knew-where, and poured a decent amount into each of them. 

“You’re killing yourself,” he finally spoke as he placed one of the glasses before Grantaire. “You’re killing yourself and you don’t even realise it.”

Enjolras’ reached out, and he took Grantaire firmly by the jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. Grantaire didn’t know what to do, so he did what he always did - he complied to whatever Enjolras wanted of him. Tonight, Enjolras clearly wanted his undivided attention. 

When he spoke again his words were firm, “I will not watch you die from  _this_. Its lowly. Its degrading. Now drink.” 

Grantaire could only blink. The man before him seemed to be contradicting himself, and he was torn. To drink, or not to drink? He couldn’t decide. 

But Enjolras’ hand had left his face, leaving behind a burning sensation, one which Grantaire knew could only be filled with alcohol. Tentatively, he reached out. This was apparently what Enjolras was waiting for, and before Grantaire’s hand had even touched it, Enjolras had down his glass whole. 

Grantaire stopped. 

He blinked. 

“You drink because you need to. I drink because I need you to see. Tonight, I match you shot for shot,” he was already tossing back a second glass, “But I do believe I need a couple to catch up.” 

Grantaire watched in frozen awe as Enjolras drank glass after glass of straight brandy. For a man who supposedly didn’t drink, he was taking it very well. 

Two thirds of the bottle was gone before he began to falter. Before he began to spill slightly as he poured a glass. Before he stopped downing the tumbler’s whole, and had to take them in one or two gulps. 

Before Grantaire realised he still hadn’t drank his first glass. 

He let his fingers grip it, raising it to his mouth, and watching Enjolras the entire time. Enjolras hadn’t refreshed his own glass, instead watching Grantaire’s every move with almost hawk-like eyes. They were staring each other down, and Grantaire found himself unable to tip the glass back and take the poison his body so greatly desired. 

Instead, he flung the glass towards the furthest wall, standing up suddenly as he did so. The chair underneath him caught on his feet, tumbling with a clatter just before the glass made impact. The sweet nectar within it had sprayed across the room, the shards were scattered all around the hit point, and all Grantaire could do was stare at the remnants as his chest heaved. 

He didn’t even notice Enjolras had moved until he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

He didn’t turn. 

“Why?” 

“So you could see.” 

“Why?” 

“So you would stop.” 

“Why?” 

“So you won’t die.” 

Grantaire barked out a laugh at that, “Why do you even care?” 

Enjolras’ response was to press his entire body against Grantaire’s back, the hand on his shoulder slowly falling down his arm, his head taking its place so he could whisper in his ear, “Because I am not your Apollo. You are not a sacrifice. You will not destroy your body this way.” 

It was a quick movement on Grantaire’s part which brought them face to face, bodies still pressed together, breathing deep and ragged. There was passion in both their eyes as there always was when they argued, but without an audience there was a different glint to them as well. 

“What way would you have me destroy it? With a knife?” Grantaire ran a sharp nail up the skin of his arm as he spoke, and Enjolras had to surpress a wince, although he could not surpress his shiver at the contact. Grantaire continued, encouraged, “With a rope?” His other hand came to slither around his neck, taking a firm hold as Grantaire went for the kill, his mouth moving to align with the other man’s throat. “With a bullet?” 

He bit down, sharply, and Enjolras hissed. His hands rose, undecided in their actions. One clutched the back of Grantaire’s shirt, pulling him closer, and Grantaire managed one tentative lick on the skin between his teeth before Enjolras pulled his head away with other. 

“I would prefer it,” he answered, using he own weight to push Grantaire back towards the table they had recently vacated, “If you could live.” 

He slammed him back against the wood so Grantaire was perched on the edge, legs intertwined in such a way to keep the drunkard pinned beneath him. Enjolras could feel every part of him, and he could feel his own body reacting to that as well. 

Grantaire was laughing a humourless laugh beneath him, hands gripping his shirt to raise himself up that little bit further, to keep his Apollo’s rapt attention as long as possible, “And I would prefer it if you could live, also. But that’s an option I do not have. Why should I live for a dead man?” His face rose, their noses now nearly touching, eyes searching but not finding. Grantaire’s grip was strong, and Enjolras found himself unable to move, “Why should I live for someone who would not do the same for me?” 

They both moved at the same time, mouths crashing together. There was nothing tentative as tongues fought, teeth grinding when they met in the battle. Clothing was torn, buttons popping and rolling never to be found again. Dominance switching almost every second, from Grantaire’s biting, to Enjolras’ scratching deep enough to scar. 

Despite all their roaming, they found themselves back in that similar position, Enjolras standing as Grantaire perched, both throbbing and almost desperate for some sort of relief. Grantaire tugged sharply on the golden curls before him, forcing Enjolras’ head back for easier access to the man’s throat. His other hand cupped a buttock, gently at first, before squeezing more firmly in order to force their bodies closer together. Grantaire stayed almost sitting as he moved his hand down to under Enjolras’ thigh, firmly lifting so the other man had no choice but to bend he leg and rest his knee atop the table on one side of Grantaire. 

He didn’t even need to touch the other one before Enjolras raised it of his own accord, rising to straddle Grantaire on the table.

Grantaire himself finally relinquished Enjolras’ throat, the man in question immediately taking Grantaire’s face in both his hands, and kissing him deeply, arching into it. 

Grantaire used this opportunity to reach a hand back for the brandy bottle, tipping it so the liquid poured over his hand, leaving it dripping. He wiped the hand quickly over his erection, before moving it to Enjolras’ entrance and slipping in a finger with no warning. The blond pressed into it, using his tongue to copy Grantaire’s movement into his own mouth.

A wicked flick.

A deep groan. 

A second finger added. 

Grantaire began to lean back slightly, and Enjolras took over. He released one side of the artist’s face, using that hand to grab his cock beneath him, and angle it towards his own anus. Slamming down quickly, they both winced, before finding a sharp quick rhythm that soon had them both spent. 

They rested for barely five minutes afterwards, Grantaire gently ghosting his fingers up and down Enjolras’ arms. No words were spoken. 

Enjolras was the first to rise, kissing the man below him deeply one last time, before finding his scattered clothes and dressing. Still in silence. 

He left without a further glance, the only acknowledgement of another human being in the room being a quick wave behind the back of his head. 

 

 


End file.
